Dick Feagler's cock goes limp in my snatch

Barely able to walk since ol' Sam Miller got upstairs. In the afterlife, he thinks he can just fuck media up the ass like we're cheap hookers, just like he used to enjoy with his old Union Club pals. If I have to hear him scream, "I'm gonna BUST Dottie! Just like we busted all those unions! IN YOUR HOLE!", one more time, I'm callin' the whole thing off. Girl's gotta have some self respect.

So I took a night off from Sam, brought a bottle of Four Roses over to Dick Feagler's. Needed some Cleveland media solidarity. Guess whose dick won't work now. Dick's. He thinks it's a funny pun because he's a "writer". Two solid hours beggin' that thing to bark, nothin'. Dick was sad.

"What's eatin' you?" I asked, "besides my dentures on your ass?"

Feagler starts crying. Great. Now I'm a psychiatrist.  Feagler finally coughs it up.

"They busted the PD's union!!" Who knew they still had a union? Back in my day, a union wasn't balled up in a corner, weeping like he lost his dog. No matter. I call up Betty Cope.

"Betty, get over to Dick's, I need some help." Betty shows up in her strapless number, the one with the handcuffs, straddles Dick's face while I mount him. Takes me an hour to get that thing in the ol' squeeze box. Another hour later I'm slippin' a disk, hangin' onto Betty's drooping witch titties for dear life. Still nothin'.

Betty's had enough. "I know who can fuck Cleveland media in the afterlife, but good!" We leave Dick layin' there like a used heroin mattress, high tail it to Bob Bennett's. Of course, Sam's there. Why me. They leave me and Betty shivering with delight dripping their spoo down our crotches, like we asked for.

Who turns up when the show's over? Dick. Whining. "What about meeeee?????" he wails, like a bitch. I pour him a Tom Collins. Betty tosses him Margaret Bourke White's floor polisher, tells him to plug it in and take care of his damn self. Sam licks my clit, just like he used to do under the table at The Theatrical. Guess we're still a hot item.

Jew close to presidency, Sam Miller realizes Democrats hate Jews, eats me out

Holy cats and jammers kids, Sam Miller got upstairs just in time for a Jew to look like being president, and suddenly he realizes rich Dems hate Jews. As the Patron Saintress of All Media, I give it a gander from upstairs, and the whole of American press looks like Der Sturmer. Big mistake tellin' Sam Miller about THAT.

Over at Moses' tiki bar for the annual Passover orgy, Sam couldn't contain himself, snapped as he's passing the horseradish.

"I give Democrats hundreds of millions my whole life and the minute I kick the bucket, they're all Goebbels!" Sam is inconsolable. Elie Wiesel just nods along sitting next to Lot's wife, who, of course, every year, shows up in her "pillar of salt" costume. It's her schtick. We're all supposed to lick her clit when its time for the "bitter herbs".

Ghoulardi, the annual Stranger Gentile at the table, wasn't having it. Another Lot's Wife Salt Lick is finally a bridge too far, tells Lot's wife, "Why this night of all nights do I have to lick that skank, bitch." Sam Miller, needing comfort, just dove right in like a champ. I get jealous.

love of my life, and afterlife

"Dottie, you know you're the only one for me," Sam garbles out from between the folds in Lot's wife. "Get in here for a go you old hag!"

Why me. So I jump in and Lot's wife starts tossing bits of salt off her pillar at the gathered Jewry of the Afterlife. Peter Lewis lights a fattie, starts passing around the brisket, shouts "RAISE THE GOBLETS!"

And it's on. Later in the boudoir, Sam pours me an after dinner Old Fashioned, starts whining again.

"I had no idea Democrats hated Jews so much, Dottie. I should never have funded every god damned one of 'em their entire fucking career. Ingrates."

Sam weeps. I hate it when Sam weeps. He did this once at the Theatrical, got all emotional over...what was it again .... oh right, that time I blurted out I was bisexual on live television. Sam said he didn't think that was lady like, but I knew the score - jealous little shit.

So now I have to cheer Sam up. Lean back, open my thighs, get all Mae West, the usual. "Maybe Bernie Sanders...isn't...Jewish?" I coyly growl with a twirl of the extra long hairs of my squeeze box's flowing red mane. Does the trick. Sam's sweaty hairy Jew ass is my world for four hours, then he stops weeping, cheers up. I always had the key to Sammie's heart.

Lot's wife can eat her salty heart out.

Sam Miller arrives in afterlife, we fuck

Folks, I'm outta commission. May never gumshoe my beat again. I'm 'bout to get plowed for unending time by the smallest most flacid cock anyone's ever seen, and love it. Every eternal second. The entire Cleveland media afterlife is holding a wake for my sex life. I don't think Del Donahoo is ever gettin' laid again, fucking charity case. They can all eat their hearts out.

Tom Brazaitis rushed over beggin' me not to drop his hairy ass like a bad habit, tells me some pointless hack is droppin' hints downstairs. What. Ever. Don't need no hints when you got the real thing. Ol' Tom can bother himself hoping Bob Bennett's closet is into bears. What a joke. They all know I've been waiting for this moment since kicking the bucket. Reunited! And it feels so good!

Reader mail 2020 edition

The afterlife goes full Caligulan crazy during presidential years downstairs, especially when Cleveland pols think about tossing their hats into the ring. Bob Bennett's sex dungeon gets boring. You can only watch Casey Coleman descend naked from a ceiling chandelier into Margaret Bourke White's waiting love canal so often.  So Old Dot needs a break. My faithful readers to the rescue!

Dear Dottie,

My husband wants to run for president, but everyone is ignoring him because he's a prancing fraud. Having a Pulitzer, I'm also a queen of Cleveland journalism, but you, of course, are my north star. So I was wondering if you had some narrative shaping pointers to supplement my online addiction of hitting refresh on my Twitter mentions. Help!

Yours,

Connie Schultz, Pulitzer

Dear Pulitzer,

It's funny. Your name never occurs to anyone up here in eternal salvation, so I sent Tom Brazaitis to visit the "other place" and ask around. Guess what he said. "Who?" Yeah, I know, #youtoo. Anyway, Brazaitis came back from Hades, covered in the reeking bodily fluids of Art Modell, angry at me, so I had to give him four hours in the sack to soothe his manhood. After letting Brazaitis pump my loins, Tom tells me between puffs on a Lucky Strike he hears you've got a reservation down there. Don't worry, sweetheart, there's still time for you to redeem yourself before we throw a party to celebrate your descent into the mouth of Biealzebub to be chewed upon for eternity. Tell your husband to say hi to Sam Miller for me.

Dear Dottie,

Iowa is rough for an Ohio kid talkin' yoga votes. All that corn. Anyway, the skeletons in my closet are starting to rattle. How do I overcome that my entire life is an unending fraud, and become president? 

Yours,

Congressman Tim Ryan

Dear Tim,

I put Betty Cope into a downward dog position and plowed her with Ghoulardi's left foot for a few hours to think about your question. In walks Jim Traficant with a bottle of Four Roses, feels left out, starts pouring liquor down my throat. Three hours later, Traficant's layin there in corpse pose with a grin on his face, chanting "Possess me." Don't know what to tell ya, Timmy. Not seein' any "yoga votes" out there. At least your potential candidacy has brought Traficant's wild side out for Ol' Dot to wallow on. Yeah. Thanks for that.

Dear Dottie,

My online media property has to cover not one, but two NEO presidential hopefuls. How do I fit that into my business model of 24/7 listicles? I've figured out how to get the local NPR idiots to fellate me once a week, got the Citadel of Free Speech in my pocket, but I can't seem to crack this nut. Please advise.

Yours,

Chris Quinn, Advance Communications

Dear Chris,

Betty Cope threw a Hanukkah party last night, so in between Nev Chandler and Joel Rose daisy chaining across her oriental rugs, I managed to ask her about your issue. "PBS died with me, Dottie," she says. Can't argue with that, so instead of giving you another moment's thought, I crotch dove Betty the way she likes, then took a nap.

Which reminds me, that's enough reader mail for this eon. Ohio presidential candidacies just ain't what they used to be.

Dick Feagler puts my face on bowl of dildos for housewarming

My new presidential candidate scoop is a real doozie, kids. Clues gettin rammed into my every orifice by Jim Traficant's flacid member, readers sending tips. Now, clues gettin plowed into every seraphim and cherubim in the Great Beyond, thanks to that piss ant blowhard Dick Feagler.

When Cleveland media royalty kicks the bucket, it's orgy time upstairs. So I grab a bottle of Canadian Club, head over to Dick's new pad. Quite a place. Feagler insisted on the full saintly "all you lands" treatment. Diva.

I walk in, and amidst every dead CLE media whore's dripping bodily fluids sprayed all over Dick's heavenly eternal home, there's a bowl of my face starin' at me from the bulbous tips of veiny dildos next to the cheese plate.

"What the fuck is this, Dick."

"HA!" Dick is amused. Throws back a Cosmo, shoves one of my dildo faces up Nev Chandler's hairy ass, which is bent over Betty Cope in doggy position gettin plowed by Bob Bennett. "Just thought you needed a few more clues for your," Dick rolls his eyes, "NEW SCOOP Dottie, don't get your knickers in a twist."

Feagler still thinks I'm an amateur. "Dick, you've always been a poser." I grab him by the neck, take one of his fancy dildos, shove it down his throat. Four hours of shoving my own face into Dick's g-spots, we're relaxing on his veranda listening to the holy hosts. I light a Camel, take a drag, cut to the chase.

"Spill it, Dick."

Dick gets coy. "I ain't as easy as Sam Miller, you old hag."

Drat. This scoop ain't gonna write itself.

Reader mail

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Clue for my new scoop falls out of Jim Traficant's hair

Sex with Jim Traficant is complicated in the afterlife. Shit just falls out of his toupe at the most inopportune moments. At least with Ghoulardi, you expect it. He's a comedian.

For my new scoop, I head over to Traficant's place with a bottle of Four Roses. Before long, Ol' Dot and Jim are rollin' in the old hay, I reach for Betty Cope's vibrating floor mop she left the other night, and out pops a dildo from Traficant's head. So boring.

"Jim, if we're gonna do this, my rules, or hit the road."

"Oh, dottie, you're such a dumb old hag." Jim picks up the dildo, stirs himself an Old Fashioned with it. "I thought you were a....ahem.....JOURNALIST?"

Light bulb goes on. Now I'm interested. I let Traficant plow my every orifice for a couple hours until I can't walk, and finally understand. I cut to the chase.

"Spill it, hairball."

Traficant lights me a Lucky Strike, drags it once, places it on my lower lip seductively. "You know I had this intern who's running for president now, right?"

"The little snot got me to start doin' yoga."

Traficant smiles. "Well, if you'll just pay attention to all the clues I just shoved into you maybe you'll figure out you're following the wrong bread crumbs, Dottie."

This scoop is gonna kill me. And I'm already dead! Drat.

Tim Ryan gets me to do yoga

Sources say Rep. Tim Ryan is running for president, and that he plans to do so on the back of the “yoga vote” https://t.co/jiQ7wwMpie by @ryangrim @ZaidJilani

— Caroline Kenny (@carolinerkenny) July 23, 2018

About two hours into swingin' from the stirrups above my boudoir, Tom Brazaitis wipes my caked bodily fluids off his mouth, finally, takes a few belts out of the bottle of Four Roses, gives me more work.

"This guy Tim Ryan runnin' for president ain't all he's cracked up to be, Dottie."

We light each other a Lucky Strike. Brazaitis combs his disgusting back hair. Like I need to gumshoe some washed up high school quarterback in Iowa. "You got a story here Tommy, or should I take the bottle over to Ghoulardi's place?"

"He's goin for....the YOGA vote." Now I'm intrigued. Betty Cope tries to get me into yoga positions all the time, says the sex is better. Always figured that was just Betty's PBS way of bein' coy.

"You expect me to exercise for a story?"

"Hell no, you just get...you know...a side benefit."

"For Betty??"

"For Betty. Ya know you want to, ya old hag!" He's got me there. Brazaitis always knew his way around a girl. We head over to Ghoulardi's anyway, he's got Bob Bennett in a missionary position in front of the Van Sweringen brothers, we just hop right in. Next morning over Bloody Marys, I announce to the gathered perverts of Cleveland's Media Afterlife I'm back in business. 

Betty Cope's ears perk up.

Prospect of Gov. Kucinich puts CLE Media Afterlife on Sam Miller Countdown

Ol' Dot's worn out, kids. Pull up a chair.

Everybody up here in heaven knows about my...ahem...."trysts" with Cleveland's reigning (still) oligarch Sam Miller in his pied a tier in Shaker Square. Can you believe he's still among the living? No one up here can.

Before you get your #MeToo knickers in a twist, how do you think I became Queen of All Cleveland Media? Everyone knows if you want a scoop from Cleveland's oligarchs, no better way than to catch their eye across a punch bowl at the Theatrical, get busy makin' em think you're "in love".

So Betty Cope comes over for a night cap bringin' a bottle of Four Roses with that look in her eye, and an announcement. "Guess who's gonna be the next Ohio governor, Dottie?!" Such a tease. Dangling a garter belt over my cocktail. Like I play guessing games.

Two hours later Betty's covered in sweat, lighting a Lucky Strike across the pillow, spills the beans. "Dennis Kucinich!" I spit out my dentures. Betty starts cackling like a hyena, I get dressed and rush over to Elliott Ness's place.

"Nessie," I tell him over a Bloody Mary, "You know what this means if Dennis becomes governor." Ness stares into his celery stalk for a moment, breaks his silence.

"That's gonna kill Sam Miller."

"I KNOW!"

"My sources tell me he's really....missed you." Ness thinks he's breaking news.

"Ol' Dot don't need this, Nessie."

"That chicken's comin' home to roost, Dottie!"

"How much of eternity am I gonna have to spend lettin' Sammy down easy?"

Ness chuckles. "I hear Ghoulardi's throwing a Sam Miller Countdown Party at Joel Rose's place tonite, since you're probably gonna be outta commission for a while once Sam arrives."

I find myself staring into the middle distance. "I can't let Dennis win."

"Sam can't live forever," Sherlock...sorry, Ness...declares. We head over to the countdown party, I'm in a daze, which turns on Tom Brazaitis. A few hours in between the cheeks of the Hairiest Ass In The Cleveland Media Afterlife, and I start coming to.

As he's stripping my stained bed for the laundry, I cut to the chase. "Tom, I need you to make sure Dennis doesn't win, so I'm not tied up with Sam Miller for an eon or two."

"Dottie, that's a pretty big ask." Great. Brazaitis finally gets scruples.

"All you gotta do is plant a story with those pimps at the PD, Tom, don't play coy with me."

Tom tries to talk me down. "Maybe Dennis Kucinich being elected governor thus killing Sam Miller who unites with you in the afterlife is the greatest love story of all time?"

This is gonna take some work.

Tom Brazaitis shits story out hairiest ass in afterlife

"County's back in crisis, Dottie," Tom whispers across my sweaty pillow after a BDSM session. Eight hours of swingin' from a ceiling harness, he brings this up now. Great. Here in the Cleveland Media Afterlife, ol' Dot needs her beauty sleep. so I roll over, yawn.

"WAKE UP YOU OLD HAG!" Tom yells. Why me. I need another story about filthy stool pigeons for oligarchs like I need more glorious curly red hair between my legs.

Tom mixes us a couple Old Fashioneds, I get irritated. "Unless you're tellin' me Sam Miller finally came upstairs for a roll in the hay for ol' times' sake, stuff it, Tom." Tom gets jealous.

"You hurt me so." A tear rolls down Tom's gargantuan schnoz. I lick it off. Next thing you know, Tom's got me back in the stirrups for another couple hours, which calms me.

Ready to put the shoe leather back on, I take a swig from the bottle of Four Roses, hand the bottle to Tom. "O.K. Tommy, spill it." Brazaitis tells me the former county prosecutor who sold the two fat daygos down the river is back in business with some sexy...ahem...colorful window dressing.

Whatever. "Same old story, Tom. White racist cop-type finds another black dish to cover for him suckin' on the ol' teet. Dog bites man." Covered in my bodily fluids, Tom gets mad, tries appealing to my pride.

"Dottie, if you don't cover this, none of Cleveland media will give two shits." Tom brushes a whisp of my red mane across my forehead lovingly. "You can even go visit Sam Miller again for...you know...whatever." Our eyes meet. I bend over, let him possess me, again. I need a fucking labor union.

"Fine." While Tom runs to tell Ghoulardi the big news, I call up Elliott Ness. "Dottie, this cess pit never stops churning," Ness tells me. "Brazaitis is onto something." Looks like Ol' Dot is back on the beat.

Rasputin & Rockefeller Double Team Ronald Reagan at Ed Murrow's Xmas Do

Everybody knows I interviewed Hitler. What they don't know is that one of the perks of being a Patron Saint of Journalism is seeing all the news downstairs play out in the afterlife in Caligulan liquor soaked orgies for our entertainment, for eternity. Now that you idiots have elected Donald Trump, well....Ol' Dot's gonna need more lube and whiskey.

The Cleveland Dead Media Delegation was named as a "special guest" on the engraved invite for Edward R. Murrow's annual holiday soiree, so Ghoulardi of course has to spill the beans. "It's gonna be John D. Rockefeller topping Reagan. I just know it." He starts sellin' tickets. Next thing I know, every dead Cleveland media celebrity from Betty Cope to Casey Coleman are packed into Murrow's basement watching The Gipper writhe in chains in a cage while John D. lets him have it. But there's more!

Outta nowhere, Rasputin himself, the old devil, swings in from the ceiling on a golden stirrup, drops into the cage, and now it's a party. Bob Bennett puts YMCA on the jukebox, screams "Where's MINE RASPY!" Hours later, bodily fluids splattered everywhere, I end up passing out, last thing I remember is tellin' Murrow, "you still got it, Ed." I wake up covered in mistletoe, and in his arms.

"Get me a Lucky Strike, darling," I whisper to Ed across the pillow. We make tea.

"You think John D. ever thought he'd see Standard Oil owning the country again?" Ed asks in his come get me deadpan.

"That was the best Christmas party since everyone came to my place for the Peter B. Lewis Welcome Party after party," I tell him. "Can we book Rasputin for when Dick Goddard gets here?"

"He begged me," Ed quips as he downs his Bloody Mary. "Filthy old Russki's been waiting for this a hundred years. Just tell him Bob Bennett will be there." We kiss deeply.

Bob Bennett rides yacht bringing blood of proletariat to Ghoulardi's RNC party

My scoop is a big dud, so I'm lookin' to procrastinate when Betty Cope shows up in a garter belt from Joel Rose's collection with that twinkle in her eye.

"New drink at Ghoulardi's RNC party tonite, Dottie! Special delivery!" I'm underhelmed. Entire Cleveland Media Afterlife been RNC'in' their immortal asses off for a week. Ol' Dot needs a nap.

"GIDDYUP GIRL!" Betty's insistent. Why me. We ride a mule over to Ghoulardi's naked, you know, tryin' to make a Lady Godvia entrance, and everybody's already drunk, swingin' from chandeliers and whatnot, but worse. Hallucinating. Like the Brown Acid. They're all on a bad trip. Bein' the Patron Saint of these parts, this will not do.

"HEY YA OLD BAG!" Bob Bennett sure knows how to woo a lady.  From his yacht. "Hand crafted oak aged vintage 180 proof BET YA CAN'T HANDLE IT!"

I grab one of his red plastic cups, suck it all into my mouth and spit it right back in his face. "Get me an Old Fashioned," next thing I know Casey Coleman's got a finger where it don't belong, then it's on. Ghoulardi boots Bennett to the "Gimp" room where Bob Hughes is already passed out, four hours later me and Braizaitis are cuddling.

"Never touchin' that again," Brazaitis whimpers into my heaving bosom. I run my fingers through his copious bodily hair and comfort him. I finally get my nap.

Tom Brazaitis Finally Adds Bob Bennett's Twitter Handle To Ass Tattoo

Hard at work on my new scoop, Tom Brazaitis barges into the boudoir to stick his new "tattoo" in my face.

"Never gonna believe this one, Dotty! TAKE A LOOK!" The aroma of his inner regions pleasures me. I mightily resist.

"Tommy," I gurgle in the space between my lips and his bulbous hair ball, "can't you see I'm workin' dear...." I give in. Half an hour into foreplay in the ceiling stirrups, I notice the @RTBGOP  hovering over Tommy's love canal, right next to the County In Crisis tattoo.

I gasp in horror. "They finally deleted it." The mood's gone for second. I pour us both a Tom Collins, when Bobby himself barges in drunk as Del Donahoo at Casey Coleman's St. Patrick's Day orgy.

"INTELLECTUAL PROPERTEEYE BLBER blerbueibjkburg......" or something. Ol' Dot needs to put the foot down.

"Bobby if you don't get your drunk fat ass outta my bedroom right NOW," Bobby plunges his tongue down the throat of the PD's most glorious all time columnist, Tom Brazaitis. "You want me in your ass Brazaitis! HUHUHSH????!?!?! I'LL BE IN YOUR ASS RIGHT NOW YOU LITTLE ......" Now I need to call Betty Cope. She calls Ghoulardi, rounds up Bob Hughes, Arnold Pinkney, the Van Sweringens, and it's on. On the patio overlooking Cleveland at the after party, sporting the new "tattoo" Ralph Perk scrawled across his forehead with...well...Bobby looks whistfully downward.

"I'm really dead now," Bobby sniffs. I get back to my scoop.

Bob Bennett tells me about Grindr, orgy ensues

Gals, the Cleveland Media Superstar afterlife ain't all its cracked up to be. Every waking moment (which are rare, we sleep for eternity, mostly) some two bit closet case is lookin' to scratch the itch he's kept from scratchin' his whole pathetic life. Never seen so many horny obese bald white men suddenly without a need for Viagra.

"You on Grindr Dottie???" I hear between knocks at the boudoir door. Ghoulardi hides under the pillow. Coward.

"WHO'S THERE? What's a Grindr?" I crawl outta bed, slip on a bath robe from the old Theatrical, get to the door, who's there but none other than the most porcine ball of closeted creosote Ohio's ever produced, Bob Bennett. The RNC bein' in Cleveland's got all the dead Republicans suddenly very frisky.

"Pour me a drink, Dot, you gotta see this!" I pour three gins since Ghoulardi is suddenly interested. "I just turn on my phone, and LOOK AT ALL THE GAYS!!"

Ghoulardi grabs the phone, immediately freaks. "Better not show this to Joel Rose."

Bennett grabs it back, turns red in the face. "Those are NOT photographs of my dick!!!"

"The Closet doesn't exist in the afterlife, Bobby," I tell him. A drop of drool appears at the corner of flab between Bobby's mouth and fourth chin. I kiss it off, slowly. Ghoulardi sends the word out, Betty Cope rounds up the usual suspects, four hours later Bobby's got a bunch of new poses to send around online.

Afterward, a cigarette. "Cleveland's crawlin' with Grindrs," Bennett harumphs from the ceiling stirrups, sippin a mai Thai.

"If you only coulda lived just a few more years, Bobby."

Drat! Voinovich drops hot Ohio VP rumor, looks like work

George Voinovich enjoys Virgil Dominic groping me.

Guess George Voinovich thinks he's so important he can wake me up from my eternal slumber to dust off the ol' Remington to cover another well known unspoken of Caligulan political orgy.  Why me.

"Hear about the pock marked discheveled potential Ohio VP pick whose dick never saw an orifice it didn't plug?" Voinovich says to me over the punch bowl at his welcome party to the CLE Media Great Beyond. Like I need this. Casey Coleman starts laughing, pourin' shots, calls over Ghoulardi, Gib Shanley picks me up, they all start parading me around like Vince Lombardi after Super Bowl I. 

"All Hail the Queen of Cleveland Journalism!!!" everyone starts chanting. I'm bobbin' up and down in mid air, Joel Rose sees an opening, climbs into the scrum holdin' me up, sticks a finger where it don't belong, suddenly its on. Hours go by, I wake up next to Georgie pourin' me an Old Fashioned wearin' nothin' but the stupid fucking grin. 

"You're gonna love this one, Dottie!"

"Spill it," I tell him, taking a drag on a Lucky Strike. 

"You know the story, Dot, don't play coy with me." George still has that debonair charm, even in glorious death. Hands me my drink, we take our first sips staring into each others' eyes. Just then Betty Cope barges in, sees George in his birthday suit, and its on again. More hours go by, all I remember is Nev Chandler swingin from a body stirrup at some point.

But I got the scoop! Guess I'm back on the beat! 

Chris Quinn's John Kasich video revives orgy night

The orgy circuit's been slow upstairs. Ralph Perk gave himself a hyrnia pile driving Betty Cope at the last one, so with injuries, the gossip crowd, and images none of us can get out of our heads just yet, me and Tom Brazaitis been goin it alone, which gets boring. So we had to order out for hand delivered brown paper bag material. The usual stuff don't cut it up here, kids.

"I know just the thing," Brazaitis whispers across my heaving bosom. Next thing I know Northeast Ohio Media Group Online Editor Chris Quinn is at the door with a special delivery from the land of the living. Brazaitis pops a video into his laptop, invites Quinn to stay. 

"Wait a minute...," I say. Old Dot has standards. I pour some gin. "Quinny Boy needs to audition first." 

Brazaitis drops his pants to reveal his glorious "County In Crisis" tattoo across the hairiest ass in the entire known CLE media afterlife. "Pucker up, pal!"

Quinn gets on his knees and licks his way across every letter in the font, nice and slow. Great. I ain't got time for this crap, so I press play on the video. There's one guy in a suit, another guy in an open collar, talkin' birth control. Why me. Brazaitis bolts for the door.

I toss my corset, Brazaitis slips on it, I'm all over him. "Not so fast Tommy. Lemonade from lemons." Delivery boys from the land of the living don't just fall off the tree every day, who cares if their snuff video ain't all its cracked up to be. I pull out the stirrups, saddle up Quinny, Brazaitis starts shouting "I'm pro-life! NEO MAHHHHGGGGG" and it's on. 

We're a bit loud, so word spreads, soon we got a crowd. The Van Sweringens bring their cage, Arnold Pinkney puts a bowl of condoms in the corner, Gib Shanley and Fannie Lewis use Quinny like an electric bar room riding bull. The video's a hit! 

Next morning at Ghourladi's canasta game, I get a bottle of VO for bringing the swing back to the afterlife. Del Donahoo asks for a copy of the video. 

Back in business!

Hey Dot! Reader mail, Andrea Rocco's attorney edition!

Here in the great beyond, all of us dead Cleveland media celebs really cannot understand why you people haven't figured out "commenting", the same way your Ol' Dot has figured out "blogging". You still send letters. Use the comments! If this old lady who interviewed Hitler himself can figure out blogging, you can figure out commenting. To the mail!

Hey Dot!   

My client, a woman not Ed FitzGerald's wife, has demanded I send out cease and desist letters to anyone (a) mentioning the missing person's report her husband filed on her, (b) alleging this combines with her recent Clerk of Courts gig to form a CLE sex scandal worthy of Joel Rose sending panties through the mail (who I do remember, vaguely), and (c) journalists. Please help. Who are all these dead people you hang out with? I need full legal names and addresses. 

Yours,
Clerk of Courts Andrea Rocco's two bit hack attorney

This is the most popular question in reader mail - "WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?" - Really? You never heard of Margaret Bourke White? I suppose you never heard of "school" either. Betty Cope takes this the hardest - all those years riding a stuffed zebra like Lady Godiva whoring herself out to sell a few used candleabras during her "auction" took quite a toll. Ghoulardi likes to pick at that scab with a spectacular zebra-vibrator-leather-harness act on the weekends. In my day, journalists wished people would sue them. Begged for it. So fire away, shit stain! Aint' my job to make sure you never get a "return to sender". Besides, there's Google. We'll shove your cease and desist letter up Ghoulardi's zebra's you know what, then use it as a dildo.

Hey Dot! 

I got a cease and desist letter from the attorney of a woman not Ed FitzGerald's wife who was reported missing by her husband once, a report which I have seen with my own eyes! Now, she's Clerk of Courts! Is this a story? I don't know what to do. Normally, I'd chase this attorney into the bathroom to catch him jacking off into the toilet paper dispenser, because that shit is money! But, I'm a coward. What to do? 

Yours,
Tom Meyer, WKYC Investigator

Kids, Ol' Dot is used to her "competitors" wagging their dicks around claiming they already got the scoop I'm chasing. Picture me holding my heaving bosom in your face - then suck it, Tommy. I'll pour a shot of Four Roses down my love cleavage to make it palatable. For once in your piss ant gutter chasing life report some actual news.

Hey Dot! 

My wife has been fellating her way up the county government ladder for years, (kinda like that lesbian Episcopal priest you covered once) but I took it personal for a minute and filed a missing persons report shot across her bow, which in hind sight looks rather rash. I asked Kevin Coughlin for advice, he said toss a few cease and desist letters around, don't worry, they're all cowards, they'll all spike it. But now, I'm nervous, as my wife isn't the only "woman not Ed FitzGerald's wife". Can I count on your colleagues to stay mum?  

Yours,
Philip Palmer, Clerk of Courts hubby

Careful who you refer to as Ol' Dot's "colleagues", sparky. I don't have any "colleagues" left in CLE journalism, which died with me. Don't worry, in two months, no one will care how your wife sashayed up the ol' food chain. Betting on CLE media to live in mortal fear of wifey's lawyer for 2 months is a pretty solid bet, so why not join the fun! Here in the great beyond, if 15 minutes pass without a Caligulan orgy breaking out, the party's a dud. Yolo!

Hey Dot! 

While a prosecutor, mayor, and county executive, I've been fucking everything that walks while not being a licensed or insured driver for about 10 years. Living above the law I enforce with an iron fist for political gain has been great, I even got myself one fine-ass Clerk of Courts out of it. Now that I'm running for governor, I'd like to use this to my advantage politically so I can take another step in my birthright destiny toward POTUS. Please advise. 

Yours,
Ed FitzGerald, Cuyahoga County Executive

Let that freak flag fly, son! For pointers, scroll through my blog. Ralph Perk has a few go-to moves you might like to try on for size. Be careful, though, Tom Johnson tends to seek out whores like you for some righteous schadenfreude come uppance. Which can briefly get ugly before he makes you the star of the show in a dog cage.

Back to the shoe leather.

Unlicensed driver Ed FitzGerald wakes me up

Last night my eternal slumber was interrupted when I realize Joel Rose is between my legs with my panties on his head floor polishing his way around the ol' squeeze box. This is how Yahweh decides I need to rise and shine and chase a scoop...great.

Joel wastes no time. "History is repeating itself Dot!" I shove him off the bed, call Elliot Ness.

"Spill it, Ness."

"Remember that lesbian episcopal priest Cleveland mayor scoop? Same damn story Dot."

"On my way." I grab my corset from around Joel's bulging hairy midriff, head over. Ness is pourin' me a Canadian Club. Neat. Lights us two Lucky Strikes. Our eyes meet. Forty five minutes naked on his desk later, I get the scoop.

"Dot, I need to find this missing person's report." I waddle on over to Betty Cope's early bird canasta game. Big crowd. Tom Brazaitis is showin' everybody the COUNTY IN CRISIS tattoo on his hairy ass. They're all ignoring me, except Barnaby, who's already two bottles of J&B into his morning, feelin' frisky.

"Need a licensed driver, Dot?" Everybody's a comedian.

"Any of you 'media pros' seen this missing person's report?" I still got Mr. Sandman in my eyes from just waking up out of eternal slumber, like I need these two bit hacks and their hijinks.

Ghoulardi slaps Brazaitis on his bulbous canker encrusted hairy tattooed ass, shouts "Here's your missing persons report, you frigid old maid!" Brazaitis pours a shot of VO through his cheeks, Casey Coleman and Nev Chandler fight each other for the best angle to swallow it down, now we got a party at my expense. Arnold Pinkey unfurls a banner screaming "Welcome Back To The Beat Dot!" like it's my birthday, and then it's on. I wake up in the Van Sweringen Brothers' hot tub surrounded by floating underwear, but no leads on my scoop.

Let's do this people.

Dot's End of Primary Awards!

Well dears, Ol' Dot's gonna retire again. Up here, we can sleep as long as we want without even knowing how many years pass, so in 2006, when my first posthumous scoop emerged, I just popped outta bed from 20 years of blissful eternal slumber and got to it. This year, I'm a bit miffed at whoever woke my ass up for a scoop that turned out to be nothing more than the usual Caligulan orgy of media whores filling their orifices with cash from big shots.

So, back to bed. Wake me up when there's a real scoop to cover. You don't think Ol' Dot already has these pimps pegged? I need reminding what a barren wasteland of sellouts and whores Cleveland media has become since I kicked the bucket like I need Tom Brazaitis rubbing his hairy ass between my heaving bosom. Please. Dog bites man ain't news.

But before that, awards! You know, the new business model. Lists! Let's get to it.

Joel Rose "Panties On Their Face" Award - Tom Beres

For excellence in carrying water for an advertiser running for high office. Ol' Dot can see a politician buying off a TV station from a mile away. Apparently, Tom can't see it sitting in the edit suite for 15 years staring right at it.

Ted Stepien "Scheisterism" Award - Jimmy Haslam

For achievement in carpetbagging. Two years ago, CLE never heard of this two bit thief. Now, he's got the city throwing bags of money at him no questions asked. Clever!

Betty Cope "Shameless Whore" Award - Mark Naymik

For record time high speed copy and pasting from a PR flack while seeking to fleece poor people. To go from your favorite PR flack's freakout, to column in print, in 48 hours, suggests hyper reactive muscles in the cut-paste area of the index finger. If I had that kinda finger, I wouldn't need Gib Shanley in the boudoir.

Ghoulardi "Dada Perfection" Award - Tim Russo

For achievement in bewildering others. Who the hell is this guy? Ghoulardi can't stop talkin' about him, watching his videos, cackling like a hyena with laughter. And Ghoulardi's the only guy who gets the joke apparently!

Bob Hughes "Vampire Squid" Award - Armond Budish

For performance in high suction at the public teat while bankrupting seniors for cash. Fifteen years is a long time to be liquidating seniors' assets so they can live on Medicaid. The American Dream! Soon, he'll be living high off the taxpayer too. This guy is the Mary Lou Retton of prostitution! Can't wait til he arrives in the Great Beyond, gimme that Hebrew, I'll make a man out of him. He'd look great swinging from the stirrups with Barnaby's parrot dangling off his nose. That, I'll wake up for.

Del Donahoo "Why Do You Even Exist" Award - Chris Quinn

For excellence in bending over. Journalism stopped being a profession in CLE when I kicked the bucket, and this guy is the most bloated maggot feeding off its dead carcass in town. Look at that hair!!! Get him up here! Do you have any idea what Tom Brazaitis would do with this guy in my steel cage whip and chain chamber? I could sell tickets!

Arnold Pinkney "Who Me?" Award - Kent Whitley

For selling out your own kind for a buck. Twice even! To fellow honorees! Once to Armond Budish, and then to Jimmy Haslam, all in the span of a year.

Casey Coleman "Woe Is Me" Award - Tom Hamilton

For achievement in repetition of a billionaire's sales pitch. Talk about soiling your own reputation. It's OK Tom. Nev Chandler is up here waiting for you. He has a thing for baseball announcers which flares up whenever he hits the sauce a bit too much.

Fannie Lewis "Judas Goat" Award - Frank Jackson

For shoveling tens of millions from poor people to billionaires TWICE in 8 months. I mean...wow people. When me and Sam Miller used to kick it in Shaker, after a sweaty roll in the hay, Sam would talk in his sleep dreaming about someone this shamelessly Dickensian. Now, he's got his man.

Jane Scott "You Ain't Rock n' Roll" Award - Nancy Lesic

For pimping herself out for Gateway TWICE in one LIFETIME. That shit speaks for itself, kids. At Peter B. Lewis's bong night last week, I talked to Arnold Pinkney about this dish, and he couldn't stop laughing. Maybe it was Peter's herb.

AND FINALLY!!!!!!

The Alan Freed "Payola For Everyone" Award - Jon Benedict

For obvious reasons. This corpulent porcine discount rack whore really is the Mona Lisa of billionaire prostitution, no? Even his tie is color coordinated! Ol' Dot used to bump into his type at the Theatrical on a Tuesday night, you know, when it's a bit slow, and the pimps are the only people on the street in town. They'd put this guy to work in a heartbeat. The Van Sweringens toss dude's 8x10 around just to start the party. Like last night at Margaret Bourke White's canasta game - took us an hour to deal another hand.


Well, kids, I'm off to slumber for a few more years. Or decades. Or maybe I'll get eternity this time, seems there's no return for journalism in Cleveland, so why not sleep out the entire existence of the cosmos? This is Dorothy Fuldheim, signing off.

Hey Dot! Reader mail from Joe Roman, Jimmy Haslam, Chris Quinn

What a dud my scoop turned out to be.  All that work I did dodging Tom Johnson's fists, chasing dentists, crawling up Tom Brazaitis's hairy ass and whatnot led to the same old story - a seething maggot pit of incestuous whores. What else is new. Dot's got the cure - reader mail!

Hey Dot!
Business is great, next decade looks even better. I need some advice. Where can I actually spend all this taxpayer money I live off of like a cockroach on a pile of dung? I'm feeling bloated.
Yours, Joe Roman

Hey Joe! You have to die and get up here before seeing anything good enough to justify that kinda money. Pretty soon, though, you won't be able to squeeze any more blood from that turnip. Just ask Bob Hughes. Better find a Plan B!

Hey Dot!
I'm from Tennessee. This whole urban midwest gritty working class ethnic thing is makin' me thirsty. Can you recommend a local champagne that these dopes will think is Polish?
Yours, Jimmy Haslam

Hey Jimmy! Get with the program. Today's CLE is a 216 Logo NEO Synergy Incubator Corridor NEOMG "THIS IS" hashtag gutteral snort sounding meaningless acronym suitable for a grant application. Ain't nothin' working class ethnic about it, you can bet your rootin' tootin' craft ale on that, Mr. Home Boyyyyy. Stick with the Dom Perignon.

Hey Dot!
Big problem. These billionaires' hot pokers up my ass are starting to chafe. I don't mind that one end comes out my mouth with C notes on a spike, but I'm so sensitive...you know...down there. Help!
Yours, NEOMG Editor Chris Quinn

Hey Chris!  Man up and lube up. Everyone knows that since I kicked the bucket journalism in CLE died with me. Your destiny is to channel cash, out your mouth, no matter which orifice it enters through, for eternity. Who do you think you are, Betty Cope?

Del Donahoo finds Armond Budish's cash

Here in the Cleveland media celeb afterlife, we know how to follow the money. It's our eternal penance for ignoring every incestuous seedy money laundering racket that lined our pockets when we still walked the earth. Betty Cope is the go to gumshoe on this topic, for obvious reasons.

Me and Betty are kind of an item, and my scoop hit a dead end thanks to $40,000 going into a black hole. So one night after rolling in the hay, I whispered a sweet nothing across the pillow.

"Betty, where's this money goin'?"



Betty plays coy, like her virgin ears couldn't possibly conceive of an instance where taxpayer money gets handed to an elected official on a silver platter then disappears.

"Ummm....Dot?.... this is a bit touchie." Breaking fucking news.

"Betty, if you wanna keep dippin' your toes in Ol' Dot's ocean of lust, better cough it up." Betty plays the victim, jumps outta bed, straps on her corset, storms out the bedroom with her nose in the air. Great. Now I gotta play hardball.

I pick up the phone. "Del?" Donahoo just arrived upstairs, and if anyone has loose lips and knows where this money's goin, it's a guy who spent a few decades at WKYC and suddenly has penance to do to pay the rent.  Del sounds groggy, tells me it's early, I hear Margaret Bourke White in the background picking up condom wrappers or something, why am I callin' him, blah blah blah.

So I cut to the chase. "Do I have to come over there and have Gib Shanley put you in his ceiling stirrups for a couple hours, or are we gonna make this easy on the both of us?"

Donahoo coughs it up. I chase down Betty at Tom Braziatis' morning canasta game, let her have it. "Care to change your story, Cope?" Betty's busted. Starts begging for mercy and whatnot. Brazaitis suggests make-up sex then a round of Bloody Marys. Four hours later, Betty and Del are at my place over a bottle of Four Roses spillin' all the beans.

Ain't nobody scoopin' the Queen of All Cleveland Journalism. Ol' Dot's still got it.

Ted Stepien spikes the punch, steals party favors

No one knows how Ted Stepien got through the pearly gates instead of ending up with Art Modell getting chewed upon by Satan himself for eternity. Gib Shanley thinks he bribed St. Peter's intern. Nev Chandler's theory involves Ted sweet talkin' Mary Magdalene...somehow? Among dead CLE media celebrities in the great beyond, Stepien is the skunk at the party.

My scoop has gone a bit sideways, now that Stepien's filthy out of town progeny are bellying up to the public teat for another boondoggle on the taxpayer nickel. So I head over to Elliot Ness's Del Donahoo welcome party to pick his brain, figure out who's whoring out to whom, which is hard, since practically every hoi paloi in CLE is bent over Jimmy Haslam's knee with a crow bar up their ass.

Well, we've been waitin' for Del Donahoo to kick the bucket for a long time, so the place is packed. Every dead CLE media celebrity is cuttin' a rug, Del's Folks got him up on a chair over their heads while Frankie Yankovic plays the Hava Nagila. Me and Ness are whispering sweet nothings to each other at the punch bowl, when Ted Stepien slinks over, pretends he's looking for something, then disappears.

Ten minutes later we're all trippin' like Ken Kesey's bus. Barnaby is wavin' his arms making barking noises, Tom Brazaitis is staring into the underside of his finger nails, Betty Cope is tryin' to put her head through her legs and fold herself into a question mark. This of course leads to the most epic orgy scene this side of Caligula. Hours later, we're coming to, need to come down easy, so we head to Peter B. Lewis's for some chronic.

Everybody's weed is gone. All of it. Turns out Stepien was the seven headed lizard spider octopus vampire squid ostrich....thing we all saw reaching into our pockets before the orgy started. Well, you don't tug on Superman's cape, and you don't take Peter Lewis's herb. Lewis sent Ghoulardi and Arnold Pinckney to Stepien's place, retrieved the goods, and left Stepien in a straight jacket with an eight ball in his mouth.

This scoop is taking it's toll!

Tom Brazaitis tattoos "County In Crisis" on his ass

Being the hairiest dead CLE media celebrity in the great beyond, the PD's wise man Tom Brazaitis is in demand. Luckily, he's had a thing for me since Ted Stepien's private room at the Theatrical, so I got dibs.

Last nite, Tom makes me a highball, we start with the foreplay and whatnot, on my way down, I see this tattooed on his ass.




My "nose for news" ain't what it used to be, but who can think about sex when a scoop is staring you in the face plastered across the hairiest ass in the afterlife? I cut right to the chase.

"This some kinda joke, Tom?"

Tom gets cheeky. "Trail gone cold on your scoop, Dot?" I pull the handcuffs and horsewhip outta my jewelry box, he gets the message right quick. "Cough it up, Tom, or shit gets real."

"Easy! EASY!" Tom starts begging, then spills the beans. Apparently the Plain Dealer lost it's "County In Crisis" typeface now that this guy is on the take from, you know, the county. "Whole newsroom is lookin' for this font," Tom says. "Well, here it is, right on my hairy ass."

I pick up the phone, call Elliot Ness. "Hey!" Tom whines, "we're in the middle of somethin' here!"

"Not anymore." Ness picks up, I let him have it. "Since when does a guy running for county executive on the take from, HELLO, the COUNTY get a free pass from a newspaper that's spent the last half decade prancing around shouting COUNTY IN CRISIS?"

"I'm on it, Dot," Ness says. In that voice. The voice that gets me to forget about Brazaitis's hairy ass then and there.

"Tom, I got work to do. Pull up your pants and hit the road."

"But....but...."

"Take your fancy tattoo over to Del Donahoo's new place, I ain't got time for games." At Ness's place, we go at it for an hour or two, light a couple Lucky Strikes, then get down to business over a Tom Collins.

"Ness, if the PD is ignoring this....." Ness winks.

This scoop is wearin' me out.

Tom Johnson beats the living crap out of Democrats over sin tax

Up in heaven, the Son of Man (whatever) has a few enforcers. Progressive mayor hero Tom L. Johnson is the Messiah's designated hitter for dead CLE celebrities who need a message sent downstairs. Think the Godfather crossed with Steve McQueen and Cary Grant.

Last night me and Ghoulardi are tossin' back martinis at Gib Shanley's, Tom glides in quietly, lookin' for action like Patton into Germany.  Pours himself a cognac.

"So Dot," he says to me, loud enough for the room to hear. Elliot Ness peeks over from the punch bowl. Every dead Democrat in the room is suddenly drinking faster.

"Yes dear?" I say with my bedroom eyes. But Tom's all business. Gets louder.

"Since when do Democrats take money from the poor and give it to the rich??" Uh. Oh.

Ghoulardi yells, "Fight!" Across the room, Ralph Perk downs his shot of Four Roses, makes a run for the door. Tom gets between Perk and the door. A momentary stare. BOOM, Johnson's fist goes through Perk's face like it ain't even there, Perk hits Gib's liquor cabinet on the way down, glass is everywhere.

Silence. Johnson adjusts his lapels, dusting off splashes of cognac. Calmly, he continues. "Who wants some more?" Then he holds this up.

John Coyne tries to save the day. "Listen, Tom, I know what you're thinkin'..." Johnson ain't havin' it.

"SHUT. THE FUCK. UP." I start takin' notes. The Queen of All Cleveland Journalism loves her a throwdown. Johnson does his best Clint Eastwood growl, whispery, menacing. "Every one of you two bit hacks... better dial up whatever seance afterlife gizmos you got.... and send this down the wire." Five minutes later, every dead Democrat from Cleveland is piled in a corner like cord wood, glass, beer, 100 year old scotch, Dom Perignon, you name it, sprayed all over the joint. Johnson walks out without even wrinkling his tie.

Me and Ghoulardi had to console Gib with an all night threesome over the loss of his entire liquor stash. My scoop is getting better by the day.

My partial from Armond Budish's dentist gets stuck

In the great beyond, I still have to deal with dentures. Took it up with Mr. Almighty on arrival, no dice. So I learned to make your teeth coming out an asset in the boudoir. Plus I got a whole routine for cocktail parties - down a bourbon, pop em out, hit the bottle, pop em back in like tossing a coin. It's a scream every time.

Barnaby saw some fly by night scam artist on TV, wakes me up on a Sunday, buys the whole racket hook, line, sinker.

"It's Armond Budish's guest expert!" That sucker born every minute they used to tell you about? That was Barnaby. Before his second bottle of J&B.

"Is that some sort of a tree?"

"No! Armond Budish! He's a 'senior advocate'!" Right.

"And you used to see a parrot in that cage."

"We all nearly puked in the punch bowl last time you popped 'em out, just get it done DOT!" Well, Ol' Dot's hygiene is a priority, so I went to this scheister. Wasn't cheap either.

Two weeks later, we're at Arnold Pinkney's new pad for a canasta game. Ralph Perk deals, Nev Chandler passes me the Canadian Club, I go into my routine. Down the first shot, try to pull out my partial. My hand slips off, head snaps back, chair tips, next thing I know I'm layin' on the floor with my corset in the air.

"HA HA HA," they all start hootin, hollerin, throwin' cards at me, spritzing beer bottles at an old lady rolling around on the floor with her teeth half out of her face. I get up, grab the bottle, see Barnaby taking off in full gallop, give chase.

"You're gonna get yours...." I try to yell, but it comes out, "grrnnghh urrghgnt blrffbt". More cards get thrown at me. So much for canasta.

Long story short, Barnaby got his. I made him pull out my partial with his own hands, then fashioned a cat o' nine tails out of it, strapped him to my ceiling, had Joel Rose make him the sub for my weekly threesome. This 'senior advocate' is gonna wish that's all he gets, cuz now I'm walkin' around flappin my gums like a dust bowl hokie.

This scoop is more work than I thought.

Hey Dot! Reader mail from Browns coach Mike Pettine

Polar votex edition! Let's get straight to the mail bag.

Hey Dot! I'm a money laundering senior fleecing pimp. In other words, a Republican. I've stitched up the endorsement of my county Democratic party for county executive. How do I keep the wool pulled over their eyes? 

Signed, Armond Budish

Back in the day, I knew a few pimps. Told 'em to keep their distance or else they'd see my handbag from the other side of their eyeballs. Don't worry, eventually they'll catch onto your racket and climb aboard the gravy train. Then they'll knife you in the back like you deserve, you'll spend a few decades pushing money bags around in the Fourth Circle, and end up trying to bribe your way past the pearly gates. Fun!

Hey Dot! This polar vortex stuff proves there ain't no climate change like I always said. How do I get people to listen to me like they listen to you? 

Signed, Kevin O'Brien, PD whore

I ran this by Carl Sagan at Barnaby's usual stitch 'n bitch over a Tom Collins. Outer space is colder than Wilma Smith's left tit. If your atmosphere is melting, outer space moves in. Then, the planet becomes a frozen rock. Not complicated. Geez, that Fourth Circle is gonna be crowded.

Hey Dot! I just got hired as the new Browns coach. They tell me to rent, not buy. I heard you used to have a pad in Shaker Square. What's the rent? 

Signed, Mike Pettine, Browns Head Coach

I ran you past Pete Franklin after a vigorous whip and chain session this morning. Pete laughed so hard, his dentures popped out onto my heaving bosom. So here's the deal. Back off, baldy. Ol' Dot still uses that place every now and then when I get bored. Besides, you look like a McMansion Walmart furniture Pergo flooring type to me, I don't trust you low rent drifters around my Tiffany liquor cabinet, not to mention the mahogany. Don't know what mahogany is? Didn't think so.

Hey Dot! I stopped by VTR last night and asked for your cocktail. Still nothing. Can I get the copyright and do my own? 

Signed, Sam McNulty, Ohio City Liquor Grand Poobah

You don't think I know Mr. Fancy Pants is draggin' his feet? Listen kid, Ol' Dot has standards. Swill palaces crawling with posing douchebags doin' the white man's overbite to Bruce Springsteen ain't it.  But tell you what - you can name a beer vat after me. Just make sure it's brass.

That's reader mail! Back to pounding the pavement for my scoop.